


Common Soul

by DhampirsDrinkEspresso



Series: Monstrous [1]
Category: Frankenstein & Related Fandoms, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Angst, Ben Solo had a Stutter, Ben Solo was Taken By a Fever, Bittersweet Ending, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Bride of Frankenstein AU, Bullying, Character Death, Creepy Snoke (Star Wars), Decapitation, Evil Snoke, F/M, Gore, Kylo is the Monster, Murder, RFR Songfic Challenge, RFR Songfic Challenge October 2020, Rated For Violence, Rated for Character Death, Reanimation, Rey is the Bride, Rey suffered a Wasting Disease, Snoke is the Mad Doctor, Snoke wants Rey for Himself, Songfic, Speech Disorders, Universal Monsters Tribute, grave robbing, mentions of past bullying, very loosely inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26928931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DhampirsDrinkEspresso/pseuds/DhampirsDrinkEspresso
Summary: Snoke brought him back to half-life, empty and numb. Now, he can suddenlyfeelagain.He gasps, hurries for the ladder, slipping twice as his wet hands tremble (the shock, it has to be the electric shock, the lightning still coursing through him, activating the nerves and making him twitch) because he can feel again.He can feelher.And she is afraid.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Kylo Ren/Ben Solo
Series: Monstrous [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1964857
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25
Collections: RFR Songfic Challenge





	Common Soul

**Author's Note:**

> **Left behind me all those years  
>  Searching for a common soul  
> I've been looking for a thousand  
> And one distractions  
> To empty my mind  
> Of thoughts of loneliness  
> I've been looking for someone  
> To take away my frustrations  
> But all I find is a sea of emptiness**
> 
> **Death will be my bride**  
>  **Death will be my bride  
> **  
> [ ~Death Will Be My Bride, Brendan Perry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LudVr_nwFk)  
> For the RFR October 2020 Songfic Challenge
> 
> There are other songs that very much influenced/inspired this but Death Will Be My Bride is the main one. I will probably add a playlist link to series page soon (cuz that's what I do...)

There is a legend, of a shared soul, a bond that reaches across even death itself, bringing life in defiance of nature. Doctor Snoke thinks he can control it.

Kylo is his first success, stolen and haphazardly pieced together under cover of night. He moves. He speaks.

He doesn’t feel.

It’s not really life, but it’s life-like, and Snoke counts it as success enough. He tries again, and again, but it doesn’t work.

Kylo thinks Snoke has given up.

Until the girl.

They have to wait for the storm. The lightning. The _life_.

The wind howls as it whips around him, sending his hair into wild disarray, exposing his ears and face to the rain threatening to slice through.

It would sting, if he could feel it.

If he could feel anything.

He stands atop the tower awaiting orders. Empty, numb for the moment, although he expects the burning rage will return soon. It always does.

_“Now!”_

The voice comes from below, and he is moving to complete the task almost before the echo bounces back down into the chamber below.

He doesn’t let go in time, and the jolt of the lightning splits, zips up his arm as well as down the long cable.

He can _feel_ again.

But it doesn’t hurt. Well, not the kind of hurt he expected anyway.

He doesn’t realize his eyes are closed until they flutter open, struggling for focus in the harsh light of the chamber.

No.

That isn’t right.

He’s still on the roof, wind and rain soaking the midnight fabric of his clothes and threatening to shove him back down through the skylight.

But he can _see_ the doctor, the equipment, the chilled but dry stone walls, as if they are here in front of him.

_Who are you?_

It’s not his thought.

Is it?

Maybe it is.

But not just. It belongs to another as well.

To _her._

He gasps, hurries for the ladder, slipping twice as his wet hands tremble ( _the shock, it has to be the electric shock, the lightning still coursing through him, activating the nerves and making him twitch)_ because he can _feel_ again.

He can feel _her._

And she is _afraid_.

Heavy footsteps, and he lands with a thud. She can see him, just barely, pale and hulking and dripping on the floor.

_Mine,_ she thinks, and then there is confusion.

“Ah, Kylo, my monster,” the other man says, and a shiver crawls up her spine. “Come, monster, and meet my bride.”

_No._

She cannot hide the shudder, the disgust.

No one’s bride, least of all his.

There is only one monster in the room, and it isn’t the dark behemoth plodding forlornly along behind the doctor.

She struggles to rise, to fight and flee, but the straps hold her in place.

The doctor reaches out, strokes a hand down her cheek and she recoils, shudders in disgust and fear. She doesn’t want this, doesn’t want _him_.

Dark eyes meet hers over the doctor’s shoulder, burning bright with something unnamed. Burning for _her,_ and for just a moment, there is the confusing sensation of being both strapped to the table and standing behind the doctor and staring at herself.

She looks…

_No, oh no, oh please NO!_

She shakes and she thinks she would cry, feels like she _should_ , but no tears come.

Because dead things can’t cry.

She remembers now, the days in bed, the struggling for breath, the coughs and weakness of a wasting disease, the sorrow on the faces of those she could call friends.

And then darkness, and this man, this Doctor Snoke. He promised to make her better, make the pain end.

She supposes he did, in a way. She cringes as Snoke reaches out to touch her again, gasping and crying out even if she can’t _cry._

There are no scars on her face, not like his with the long cut down face and neck, haphazardly stitched back together almost as an afterthought. He can almost see it, the fine, careful stitching just below her neck, on her upper arm. He knows the effort it took. After all, he did it himself, countless hours of small stitching with the finest silken thread, large fingers a hindrance but he was determined.

She deserves that much care. More care than Snoke showed when he pressed the pillow over her face, or when he ordered Kylo to dig up the trench, pull her body from the mass pauper’s grave, collect the final pieces needed for his new creation.

If she’d been able to heal, she’d likely have no scarring.

_If._

But the dead are unchanging. There will be no healing. For either of them.

She gasps, tries to jerk away as Snoke reaches to touch her again.

_No._

The hulking figure behind the doctor reaches out.

_What are you doing?_

She can’t help thinking it.

_No_ she hears in her head, almost as if in response, as he grasps the doctor’s neck. She thinks the doctor tries to speak, thinks he looks surprised, as he gurgles and gasps.

It’s taking too long, he can’t get a good hold, not from this angle, so he lets go, releases Snoke. The doctor takes a ragged breath, words ready to fly, but Kylo’s hands come up, grasp either side of his head.

There is a wet snap and the doctor falls, liquid spatters followed by a dull thump as Snoke's head finally joins his body on the floor.

She is staring at him, eyes wide and horrified, and there are flecks of blood on the sheet, on her _face._

_No._

Unclean, he has soiled her. He has to fix this, clean the mess.

Large hands come closer, and Rey thinks she should be afraid, but this creature, this giant of a man, she knows he means her no harm.

Still, she gasps as he rips away the soiled linen sheet, fumbles at the restraints keeping her immobile. When she is freed he takes a half-step back, tearing off his heavy jacket, pulling at the black shirt beneath until he is bare from the high waist of his pants up, and she blinks at him, unable to focus on anything but the expanse of scarred and stitched skin, mottled and pale in death.

“S-s-sorry,” he stammers, “Wet.” The voice is rough with disuse, and he stumbles over the words as if his tongue is too big for his mouth.

He won’t look at her. Why…oh. Yes. Right. She takes the shirt, and it’s only a little damp, most of the rain held in the heavy wool of his coat. The cold doesn’t bother her as she tugs the fabric down over her body, covering her torso and upper legs.

It takes three tries, to make her mouth work again, but finally it does. “Thank you,” she says softly.

_I know you._

She isn’t sure if the thought is hers or his. Maybe it’s just _theirs._

He turns back around, and the recognition hits her. A tall, awkward boy who never quite grew completely into his features, and thanks to the fever that took him never would. She remembers the soft way he spoke, shoulders hunched as the other children of the gentry teased and bullied him for his bookishness and his stutter.

She is startled when his hand comes up, a moment of warmth as his thumb brushes over her cheek and he makes a pained face. His hand comes away streaked with red.

Oh. Right. The blood.

She finds she doesn’t really care about that so much, but she wants him to touch her again.

She wants to _feel._

“You…you’re warm,” she says. It’s the best she can do, this attempt to express the entirety of her thoughts.

His lips part and he takes a breath she doesn’t think he needs. She is fascinated by the small movements of his chest as his reanimated body attempts to use the air it no longer knows how to process. Wordlessly, she reaches out a hand and his comes up, mirrors her movement. Slowly, oh so slowly, they move together, fingers trembling as skin meets palm to palm.

_Warm._

She is warm to the touch, and he gasps for more air he doesn’t need as he _feels_ for the first time in…how many years has it been? Seven? Eight?

“Nine,” she says. “Nine years, three months, and twenty-seven days.” Her eyes find his. “You were my only friend.”

“H-h-how?”

“I can…hear you?” she says, shifting uncomfortably, “In my head?” She glances down and he _feels_ her discomfort, shares the strange sensations she can’t quite name.

An image works its way forward, a freckled face, skinny arms on her hips and a defiant tilt to her chin as her hair fell free from the braids his mother had woven in earlier, the ruffled frock replaced by his old, cast-off shirt and trousers. He always wondered where she even found them, assuming they had been thrown out years before.

_Rey._

She nods, and her eyes have a shine to them almost like tears but that’s not possible. The dead can’t cry.

He can hear her _yes_ , even though she hasn’t actually said it.

He can’t help himself, his left hand still pressed to hers, he reaches up with his right again, touches her face and strokes his thumb back over that spot where the last speck of Snoke’s blood sits and she closes her eyes and sighs as warmth radiates through her.

He can feel it too, sliding along his fingers, up his arms.

He feels a curious fluttering in his chest at the same moment her eyes fly open and she grasps at her own torso, hand coming to rest between her breasts.

It is sluggish, at first, old muscle unable to repeat the motions that were once natural, but eventually another flutter.

His heart beats for her.

Their lips touch, and he can taste salt.

Tears.

One of them is crying.

Or maybe both?

Impossible and yet no less true.

It’s still not life, not really, but it isn’t death either, and as long as they are together, he will take life- _like._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking Dracula next...maybe a Breylo take on things for that one?


End file.
